You and Harry had married two years ago, not long after being introduced by the Adore matchmaking agency. For the most part, you were happy. You still didn't like when he showered you with unnecessary gifts, but you always appreciated the gesture.

But two months ago, things began to shift. He started staying late at the office, sometimes even sleeping there. He became too exhausted to even ask about your day. When he was home, he'd often find fault: criticizing the dress you wore to a recent gala or the simple breakfast you cooked.

He had never given you a single reason to suspect anything before then, before this sudden, chilling distance. You were afraid now. Afraid there was someone else. That he was losing interest in you. That the "honeymoon phase" was real, and that he hadn't really been in love after all.

And so, as he meticulously got ready for his company's annual gala, a dinner to which you hadn't been invited, you thought about all of it. You thought about his vague reason for excluding you.

"It'll be boring," he said as you helped him with his tie, your fingers brushing the silk. "You'll fall asleep before the speeches even begin."

"I still want to come," you said, the words slipping out despite the fact you probably would doze off.

"I insist, love. You stay here, cozy in bed, and I'll go. It'll just be a few hours." Harry's hand reached up, brushing a stray hair behind your ear.

It was one of those fleeting moments, a small, tender, and genuine, that made you doubt your own suspicions entirely.